Patsy Burke is a famed sculptor, an Irishman living in Paris. Back in the days of the three-cornered hat the word for him would have been libertine. He is a womanizer, a drunk, a raging bull who has left a trail of teeth and bitten-off ears on the floors of the most dangerous bars in Paris. One day he awakes to find himself bloody after a night of which he has no memory. He has only the information that someone was killed.
The novel is told by the variously named and contradictory "voices" in Burke's head ranging from the good altar boy to the Romantic to his Nietzchean inner satyr to his inner Jack the Ripper and beyond. These are voices that seek to control him, reubke him, or just observe him. Will the bloody truth about that night lead to his ultimate transformation, the redemption to cleanse the poisoning of his art, or a final descent into utter madness? No simple interpretation of where this goes is recommended.
This is a trip where the ride is the main attraction. Gaynard prodigiously tours the highs and lows of Paris, Europe, religions, Marxism, and anywhere else a restless intellect might travel. The writing is brilliant, tactile in its detail, both intellectual and sweaty. There is a bar fight written in a one-page sentence that reads like it was directed by Fellini in one long shot. Sex and violence are this novel's two food groups and this is a buffet. This is airport reading only if you're flying to Sodom.